Author's Notes: I can't believe that the journey is almost over, meaning that there's only one more chapter after this. And sorry for the late update! I hate keeping my readers waiting; I feel as though I cannot express this enough.
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The Joker: Heath Ledger
Harley Quinn: Brittany Murphy
R.I.P To both of these amazing actors.
Summary: There's something maddening about the unexpected, but drastic changes calls for drastic measures.
For Now
"Is my timing that flawed?
Our respect runs so dry,
Yet there's still this appeal
That we've kept through our lives."
Joy Division - "Love Will Tear Us Apart" (1980)
"I've grown quite fond of you."
It could have been one of those moments where she might have misheard with a spark of hopeful fulfillment while a rooted hunch gave way that there had been no misstep in her comprehension. But, she didn't feel that leap of encouragement at all—the kind that seals a deal, ties a knot, or strengthens a bond. In reality, this revelation (although she's had an idea) seemed to have stacked wall of bricks forming a dead end to her previous thought.
Her breath hitched as her chest clenched. Harley felt like time had frozen—her halted breaths controlled the motionless ticking of every second displayed on the mounted clock behind the Joker. The seconds hand only ran as her shoulders sagged, expelling air that's been left in her lungs to stale.
Out of all the years they've known each other, this was the best he could say? Especially after all of the distress and abuse he had caused her this night, or the days before she had ran off. This is how he felt? She's known this—how else could he have taken her home with him and kept her for years with relative peace compared to how he treats others. She was scared it might true, that maybe he never wholly loved her at all.
She stuck her stinging gaze on the running clock. "I know, but I need more."
His fingers drummed endlessly on his thigh as he nibbled on the scarred tissue of his inner cheek; his thumb was left out of the loop. He kept a straight face as her focus followed the disorganized pattern of tapping that disrupted the orderly clock. She'd never admit to him how graceful his hands looked in these circumstances.
It took her back to the past of when she had been his doctor during their sessions. She would be in a hypnotic state as she waited for a response while he drummed away. Sometimes, a bouncing foot joined in the rhythm of whatever melody was stuck in his head at the moment. She'd realize much later into the session that he wasn't going to give her a response.
She almost doesn't notice that his gaze has shifted towards her as his hand relaxed beside him. "Did I ever tell you how I got these scars?"
Her jaw threathens to dislodge itself and drop to the floor, but she's quick to pick up on the game he plays with everyone, including herself. "Only about a hundred times," the deadpan humor irritated her throat.
But, a sneer never follows through on his set features, nor does a witty remark leap from the tip of his tongue. Instead, a dead-set gaze bores into her orbs, similar to the one he had as he pinned her beneath him in an outburst earlier, but this time he was much more in control of himself—awareness.
"I used to be one of them—Falcone's boys—before Maroni took over." She nearly gasps at the reveal of information as his mind wanders into what was once a dusty, untouched timeframe left to simmer inside the heat of his skull.
Her mind unboggles and listens with clear ears, forcing her lips and teeth to enclose her loquacious tongue. "Nicky Falcone, the mob boss's son, had once been a dear friend of mine before—" he motions towards his chesire smile "—these."
"What a naïve little fool, who thought his father was the center of the universe," he muttered more to himself.
Five years ago...
He was waiting for the signal from the boy with tawny eyes who hadn't even muttered more than ten words to him since he moved back in with his loaded folks who owned Gotham's underground. The same tawny eyes that jittered east and west but never landing on the painted figure who directed his own strict attention towards him. The same boy he had shared an apartment with almost a year ago, who had shared the same laughs and sense of humor before the Joker realized it was not fun anymore.
Nicholas stood at the top of the fire escape stairs on the side of the apartment complex with a full view of the Joker and the rest in their rightful places. Swallowing the continuous lump in his throat, he caught the Joker's dark gaze from below. The orange glow from the poorly-lighted streetlamp draped his menacing figure even further. Nicholas quickly busied himself as he stiffly faced the other direction to survey their surrounding.
Fingers encased in purple gloves held the submachine gun close to his waist as he studied his old friend from below. Nicky reminded him of Tom Sawyer, but of a much more nervous nature—he seeks adventure, but only to hold back when the timing is right. But tonight, the Joker noticed that Nicky could not hold himself still as neurotic tendencies completely replaced him. It was suspicious behavior.
The mob was filled with males of two-faced nature; their loyalty solely tied to their end-of-a-job paychecks. Low-lived gangsters picked out from the dirtiest slums of Gotham—Jack hadn't been much different, other than having had genuity that was rare in these parts of town, which in the end hadn't gotten him anywhere, except bringing him more of the same dismay.
The Joker's dark eyes landed on a guy ways from him down the narrow sidewalk, who in return flashed a gold tooth in a sardonic smile. The man wore a gold chain that without a doubt would tint his skin green if he wore the cold material under his suit. He recognized old scuffs, wrinkles in the leather, and dirt on his shoes that indicated heavy age; his eyes then landing on the gold tooth once more. He would soon become new money if he paid less attention towards this direction, and turned to Nicky for the oncoming signal.
Present time...
Her attempts of keeping quiet proved to be futile as Harley opened her lips in hesitation that spoke volumes. "W—What happened to him?"
The Joker didn't need to speak, his expressionless eyes told her everything, yet he directly answered her without missing a beat. "I took care of him."
As she thought back to this, Harley decided that he had to have killed Falcone's son after his deliberate escape from Arkham. His missing presence had worried her so much that she couldn't sleep and was running on caffeine throughout the day. She had been swallowing her frown in front of her co-workers, friends, and family, pretending his escape hadn't bothered her personally. That is until he had managed his way inside her apartment late at night when she was alone nearly a month later, beaming at the sight of her. So, that's what he was doing.
He spoke again, "I met him at a music store. He was buying CDs," he smirked to himself, "I was buying a vinyl."
Harley picked up the melancholy in his words. A foreign tone suggesting that there had been a time when things were different with his friend. A time in his life she wished she could have experienced—a moment to get acquainted with the old him, whoever that may be.
His floor-driven gaze picked up before focusing on his main story once more. "One day after a job gone wrong, Nicky and the other boys decide they don't like me anymore—said that I'm 'too zealous.'"
"It's five against one; I'm beaten until I can't see straight. Two of them hold me down, while the third one, a bit of a sadist, grabs a hold of his switchblade," the Joker mimics flicking a pocket knife open, "looks me in the eye—'Why so serious?'—and carves into me."
Five years ago...
"Freeze!" a police officer who had rounded the corner raised a pointed pistol in hopes of stunning the offenders.
The Joker was quick on his feet and fired a couple bullets from his hip, one hitting the officer's clothed thigh rendering him motionless and the other plunging into his stomach. It was enough for them to weasel their way out of there and back into one of their many hideouts.
Nicky leaned over the railing to see the injured officer fall back on his backside as the Joker cursed him under his breath. Looking up, the Joker shook his head and thought that Nicky was much too distracted by whatever it is that is keeping him occupied. So much for a lookout.
Sirens began wailing into the night, echoing across the sky and cutting into Nicholas's cold sweated skin. He saw the Joker begin fussily following protocol, without a care if the others followed or not, as the rest stayed a moment behind looking up at him, waiting for their mark. The thumping in his chest only grew louder as their stares bore into his clothing and down to his clammy skin.
His thin lips stuck together in hesitation, but he gave a subtle tilt of his chin as a signal to the men below. An inner voice hoped that it was much too dark for the rest of the men to see it, but it was left unanswered as they soon followed and rounded the Joker. As their echoed footsteps began to drown out into one of the near alleys, Nicholas snap out of it. He descended the fire escape stairs, hopped onto the floor, and stayed not too far behind the rest.
The first one trailing behind the green-haired clown catched him by surprise by throwing the submachine gun out from his grasp, landing too far for him to retrieve. A foot followed, thrusting into the back of his knee, forcing him onto the floor—the Joker wouldn't have time to complain about the stain it would leave behind. His painted lips delivered a soundly grunt as the air abandoned his lungs after a brutal kick landed on his stomach.
Nicholas neared the group, catching the Joker pulling out a switchblade from his pocket and imbedding the blade into the calf of the one who kicked him.
"He got me in the fucking leg!" he screamed in agony as the blade protruded from the muscle, blood already seeping through his trouser in an angry stain.
The first one throws an unsuspecting fist towards his painted face to knock him further into the pavement, and spoke to his friend with no patience despite the gory mess on his friend's leg. "Shut up, and help me hold 'im down."
With no argument, he limped his way over and continued to beat on his lying form before processing the other's demand. He spat in his face, "That's what you get, trash."
As the two of them held the struggling clown down, the third one with the gold tooth pulled out another blade from his pocket, ready to cause damage. He came closer, "You know you're a bit too zealous, right? Down right annoying, I think is the correct word. We don't trust you—you're better off dead to put it nicely."
But, 'annoying' wasn't it at all. He wasn't some bug they could swat away with a flick of their fingers. He was a potential plague to Falcone's orderly business, and Falcone didn't meddle with the criminally insane. That was a risk the boss wasn't ready to take because he knew it would soon backfire into a internal warfare. They feared what those cold and calculating eyes were capable of with their family.
He twisted the knife in a certain angle, ready to slice the skin of his cheeks like fruit. "You're so serious for a clown. A clown should always be smilin' don't cha think? How about we twinkle with your appearance a bit?" he mocked sympathy with a more pronounced accent.
He looked towards the others with a gleam in his eye, "I think I might enjoy this." The first and second one chuckled along with his statement.
The cool metal pressed against his delicate skin, ready to tear it from the sharp edge of the knife. The position of the weapon was close enough to the years-old affected area. The dragging pressure was painting him familiar pictures and haunting memories of the acquired scar on his lower lip—it had been by a clumsy, yet swift, older hand with jagged glass.
Yet, oddly, a sickeningly sweet sensation washed over him as the blurred object upon his face began cutting into the working muscle until he didn't see the gold toothed-man with a sinister smile anymore, but his mother holding the same damped towel onto his lips while expressing words of comfort with a soft voice that their rough life hadn't managed to beat out of her—"You're okay, Jack. I'm here now."
Nicholas hid away from the others' view and clamped his hands over his ears, wanting to mute the pants, wheezes, and groans that howled from the pit of his once-dear friend. Nicholas felt as though nothing could stop the sharp intakes of breath and the silent, yet imaginable, noises coming from gold-tooth's handiwork.
He closed his eyes to break the image, but the detailed gore explained to him earlier was already seared into his mind. Every nick and how tight the grip of the handle should be, it was all memorized. He could see it clear as day, even though he had purposely strayed behind them, their backs covered the gruesome scene, pretending to watch his whole doing in action.
The blue and red lights of the cop cars bounced off the rough walls while the wails reverberated down the narrow path. Nicholas was the first to realize the oncoming situation of cold handcuffs against heat if they didn't escape soon. "We gotta go!" he demanded the others.
But the blade-welder wasn't finished yet. He quickly forced the Joker's head onto the other side and with careless flicks of the knife, sliced a jagged line—opposite from its brother. "Night night, motherfucker," he kicked him one last time before joining the others down another path with the men-in-uniform moments behind.
Red blurred his vision as a mixture of saliva and blood streamed down the lower half of the Joker's face as he carefully opened his mouth in order for the thick liquid to escape. He staggered into uneven footing with a migraine and swollen eye, a feeling of dread creeped up his spine as a swish only a cape against opposing wind was capable of was heard behind him.
Present time...
"That fucking coward just stood and watched it all happen. He couldn't even get his hands dirty, much less even look at me," he pounds a shaking fist into his thigh to which Harley flinches, "and they fed me to the bat and pigs."
He's hunched over as he does so while breathing heavily through his nostrils. Harley can't see his face, hidden behind the drapping curls from his scalp. She notices his shoulders following the pattern of his lungs sucking in oxygen and releasing whatever bit of tension he's held on to for so long.
Like any psychopath, the Joker too had a point in time when he completely snapped, leading into a gradual, inevitable descent. But, from the looks of his story, he must of reached a breaking point more than once—a rare occurrence that is possible if standards within a person have changed over time.
"The mind can only take so much."
She lets his body naturally expel the contents of pent up rage before she reached over to him and settled her hands on his cheeks, mindful of the scratches she'd given him, running her thumbs over the damaged skin on each side of his lips. She studied the rigid lines in awe as she traced them because they were perhaps the main reason to their fates' intercepting and joining in as one.
"I never got to Falcone, I could've, but you're—uh—friend, Scaredy-crow, beat me to it," he added as she continued her ministrations. Harley let out a small giggle at his typical attitude towards the other miscreant.
He took a deep breath, and felt her hands warming up his skin, as he mumbled, "You're the only one who's touched them and lived to see another day."
A grin took over her features, flashing her straight teeth, as she gazed deeply into his chocolate eyes. Her loose strands tickled her back as she straddled his lap. "I guess so," a husky giggle escaped her parted lips. It's true, indeed.
Tears brimmed on her water line, never once escaping in a trail over her rounded cheek bones. Their warmth transferred between their molded bodies as they held eachother for once in this night without the other snapping. She let out another laugh at the turn of events, and this time he joined in too.
Love is something so complex that it does not even have a thorough definition—a vague concept that is only capable of being perceived by one's inner-self sensing a rooted, spiritual connection with another being. This was the closest Harley has ever been to describing what it is that has caused her to choose a life with a man beneath the law rather than a business man who could give her the nuclear family this society so desperately craved.
Her faith in their relationship was restored, for she had just witnessed him entrusting her with his darkest moment. She learned that for him trust was his way of showing commitment; trust means more to him than any physical affection ever could, although he was not by any means opposed to showering her with his affection every once in a while (how Lucy was conceived in the first place).
Her gaze travelled to the somewhat noticeable y-shaped scar on his lower lip as her thumb gently stroked the imperfection. It was far out-shadowed by the others. "How'd you get this one?" she simply asked.
The softened look in his eyes stayed the same as the motions of her thumb ceased to let him speak without the extra weight. "My father... It was the last time I let him touch me," he said in a tone that hinted a bit of regret layed within his chest.
She licked her lips as the idea formed in her mouth—an idea that has crossed her mind since he was her patient. "You killed him," the stillness in his breath highlighted by the silence in the room planted a seed of cognizant in her pores leaving her natural moisture to sprout the roots into her mind, like the act of a lightswitch flicking on.
This judgment originated in her mind after listening to plenty of his faux tipping of the iceberg stories used to manipulate his victim's emotions. Many of them involved an angry, alcoholic, and abusive father that has caused the permanent damage on his face. Of course the stories had been twisted into painting a far more repulsive scenerio, but the pain he must of felt as a child living under the same roof with a brute of a father was there just the same.
Resting her forehead against his, she wrapped her arms around his neck and closed her eyes in a silent consolation while giving him the knowledge that he wasn't alone anymore; he no longer has to suffer alone.
He is the sour apple left within walking range of the old tree stump that is his late father—his mother was once the rain in their drought land. Explosive, like his father. He is the poisoned apple that the evil witch, called fate, tossed onto a willing Harley's lap. He knows he should just turn back and leave, but he was already spoiled.
Harley is breathing in his scent when he speaks almost too low for her to hear. "I won't hurt her."
She opens her eyes to look into his bottomless pits—too complex of a person to be unraveled without permission—and immediately knows that he is certain. The Joker has always been a man of his word.
Carefully the brick wall was taken apart, giving her the choice to continue onto her path of warm weather and grey skies. Looking back, she can see the darkness withdrawing further than she has ever seen it in years, but instead of warmth she feels a frost burrowing under her chest that only grows as the darkness continues to transcends. The darkness has become her personal comfort, her release.
She wants it back—needs it back. Just moments ago, uncertainty striked a fear so deep she wanted to scratch at it until her nails bled and her skin turned raw. But, she knows she could never runaway from a part of herself—him.
Retreating her steps, she ran after the darkness until her very being was engulfed in it.
She met his lips with hers for the first time in over a year, reconnecting the wire into the socket.
Looking straight into the new, yet familiar, path she could take, she was for once lifted above the shadows, rocking over its waves like an ocean. It was a step in the other direction, one she has desired all along.
A small moan of contentment left her throat as his body pressed even closer to hers, deepening the kiss. Harley became aware of his hands on her slim waist as they parted for air. Resting her head on his shoulder in a loving embrace, his whisper tickled her ear. "You have no idea how long I craved that."
Grazing her lips on his shoulder, she said, "I did too." And, they stayed like that, basking in the glow of their proximinity until they fell into a light slumber of tired limbs as comfortable as they could be in the loveseat. Until the Californian sun shone over the reflecting horizon and its heated rays penetrated through the semi-sheer curtains, complementing their color-blotched skin.
For once she was overcome with strong excitement to return home with him and their daughter, even if he did not have a parental bone in his body. He had enough to give her what she wanted, and for that she was thankful. Sure, she knew for certain that she was not returning to the public as Harley Quinn and neither was he hanging up his crown as the infamous Joker, but they would sort an arrangement because they were not alone as a pair anymore.
A semi-normal life could be accommodated for their daughter. If anything, they would manage for now, and take it one day at a time.
Author's Note: Once again, I'm sorry for the long wait. The writing for this chapter was a slow process while I balanced out school work and other hobbies as well. I do hope the ending was satisfying and not too brisk. I have/had 4 papers either due or the date is really close by, I've just been too fried to write as much as I'd like to. Okay, enough of my excuses.
Anyways, I believe that everything the Joker represents, whether in the form of speech or visually, ties closely to his mysterious and unknown past. I think it is very unlikely for him, or anyone, to just adopt a persona that they couldn't relate to in one form or the other. Then again, I'm sure others heavily disagree with me because he is one of the most complex characters out there. This is just my take on his character.
P.S. If I knew anyone in a similar predicament as Harley in real life, then I would sure as hell not want them to get back together with their abusive partner, but fortunately this is fiction and Harley's original purpose in the television show and comics was as a tragic figure. To me, Harley really symbolizes the phrase, "One moment it's all fun and games, and the next moment it's not."
Therefore with that in mind, I chose this song for this chapter because her unhealthy relationship with the Joker will never work out the way she wants it to. Love will tear Harley apart (again).
Alright, enough of these morbid thoughts.
P.P.S. Congrats if you know who says, "The mind can only take so much."
THANKS TO ALL OF MY REVIEWERS:
XxxoxoxxX: That's my goal. And, wow, that other review is quite something. I really appreciate it, and I hope to continue to live up to the expectations!
TumblrBroughtMeHere: Here's more of a prequel to the flashback from the previous chapter.
lala3366: I wish you luck in college as well. May you pass all your classes with ease.
LadyAsaka: Did J believe Harley? Well, he put that aside for now because he wanted that little bit of submission from her and she gave it to him in that fragile moment of last chapter. I think it's safe to say that the Joker is handy at supressing what he doesn't want to know or remember. He may never mention it again or he may do something much worse in a fit of rage.
Gemstar24: Stick around for more:)
Tillyman: Don't worry, this story is still going strong.
Until then!
10/25/2017